to belong nowhere

abel gaither-poe 20 years old untriggered psychic demiromantic/pansexual

[abel-notable-blog]

proper meetings || abel & willow

[abel-notable-blog]

willownotweeping :

She stepped back as he swung down, unsure where he was going to land, and in the back of her mind she wondered if he was hurting his hands more with all that climbing. Why was he always in the trees, in the forest like this? Not that she didn’t love being out here, but he sort of seemed to…well, live out here. After what happened at the masquerade, it seemed possibly unwise.

She moved back over to him once he’d settled on solid ground, her smile visibly warmer now that she was face-to-face with him. “I heard you were still…trying to heal,” Willow answered, nodding. “I’m…err, I’m alive. Much of the rest of it, I can’t be sure. I got a car. I…inherited a car, I guess.” She shrugged, holding her upper arm with the opposite hand, suddenly quite interested in the ground. “I don’t really drive, so I’m not sure what to do with it.” She didn’t mention that she couldn’t much stand to sell something that brought about such lasting memories she had with her father teaching her to drive. It was easier to focus on the things she had than reflect on the things she’d lost. 

“I wasn’t…I mean, I’d hoped to find you, but I hadn’t come out here looking for you in particular. I’m helping. Trying to help, to heal the wounded earth.” She extended her hand toward his, though she didn’t reach to touch him. For all she knew, it could hurt or contaminate the wounds, and she was here to fix it. “You’re wounded too. Plants are more my specialty, but my co-worker told me you sought a remedy for your hands. I formulated those remedies, and I brought you a stronger one.” She shrugged the messenger bag from her shoulder and sat it on the ground, crouching to root through it. “If you want, I can treat your wounds. My cabin’s not…not too far from here. Toward the mountains. Or if you would rather stay here, I…” She shrugged again, and shook her head. “I want to help,” she reiterated quietly, looking up from the bag with uncertain eyes.

Abel shrugged and nodded when Willow commented about how his hands were trying to heal, brushing off the bits of bark still clinging to the bandages.  “Still healing, yeah,” he replied, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with a sigh.  He frowned at the rest of her statements, concerned about the way she seemed suddenly interested in the ground between them.  The rest of what?  And... she’d inherited a car?  The inheritance had to be related to the events of the masquerade, but- oh, it probably wasn’t polite to press the matter.  Willow seemed thrown off enough by the mere mention of the car.  He didn’t want to upset her even further.

“Heal the earth?” he blurted out, still frowning.  How could one person repair the damage done by the fire that’d swept through the forest?  It wasn’t possible - the way Willow was talking, she was doing something that was healing it fast, faster than just planting new trees and waiting for them to grow over years and years.  “What do you mean, heal the earth?  How do you do that?”

He shook himself, closing his mouth with an audible click as the other woman crouched and began shuffling through her bag.  “I, uhm, y- you didn’t need to,” Abel said, shoving his hands in his pockets and wincing as the sudden pressure of the movement sent a small sting through his hands.  He appreciated the gesture, but- “I can’t- I can’t repay you for a stronger remedy, Willow.”  Abel was still waiting to hear about a job at the thrift store, and his funds were running low.  He still had a good amount of the jar Chaucer had given him left.  He didn’t need a stronger remedy, even though he really was quite thankful.  “I men, uhm, thanks, but I just- I can’t.”

[abel-notable-blog]

leviathangeometry:

Run.

It was rare that Jonathan ever found himself at a loss for words, lacking a plan for action, but just because he felt nothing for those bodies that hung in the trees didn’t mean that the abrupt arrival of the hunters,–or, perhaps, the official announcement of a presence that had been there for some time,–didn’t change things.

It also didn’t help that it took way too much pain and effort to tie his goddamn shoes this morning. 

The woods were usually pretty empty of human,–or witch,–or hunter,–presence. Their vastness compensated for the handful who ventured into their depths on the regular. But over the last few days they’d just been downright empty. Probably not a surprise, given that whole sections had been burnt to the ground. Even he was compelled to stay away from the ruins. If he could feel anything, it was the desire for self-preservation.

But that emptiness, the charred silhouettes of trees, probably burnt rings-deep with unpleasant memories for most of the town, were also his escape from the masquerade. It was becoming taxing, pretending to care. He tried to see it as a game, but so early in, and with so few pieces of his own on the board, with how completely eclipsed he had been by this invasion, it had become, more than anything, exhausting. While the confirmation of hunters helped him with the bodies,–misdirection,–it was also a variable outside his control.

He tore through the trees, off the path, his prohibitively expensive running shoes doing the trick in cushioning his feet from the uneven terrain. The music pounded in his ears, his heart pounded in his chest, and his feet pounded on the ground, and–

–he noticed someone else step into his path. He had to react quickly to avoid a full-on collision with either the person, or a nearby tree, neither of which sounded like the best of ways to cap off his excursion. His feet skidded over the loose rocks and dirt covering the ground, and he halted to a stop, managing to remain on his feet. 

As he bent over, stretching out his tensed muscles, his face hidden, he scowled. Somehow he had the expectation that the scarcity of people in the woods meant he could expect absolute solitude. In that he was mistaken.

He straightened out again, put on his social face. “Have to say, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here. This place has been–” he stopped himself. He was about to say ‘dead,’ but that was probably insensitive. “…empty.”

Abel hated this.

He hated how silent the woods were, devoid of people, animals... it seemed like even the bugs were avoiding the burnt trees and scorched earth where the inferno had swept through.  And while part of him couldn’t blame them - fire was a pretty terrifying thing - it was still ridiculously unnatural to hear how quiet it was now.  There were still trees standing untouched, at the edges of the forest... why couldn’t the animals shift to populate those areas?  Something had changed, the night of the fire, something bigger than a few fallen trees, but Abel couldn’t place his finger on it.

Pain twinged through his hands when he shifted on the branch, readjusting his perch, and he glanced down at them to check how the gauze was holding up.  He hadn’t gotten the chance to wrap around the gauze with the strip of old shirt to protect it from the rough bark of the tree, leaving it smudged with the efforts of climbing.  Bits of bark were caught in the gauze, remaining there even when he tried brushing them off.  Abel pulled the bag of gauze that Chaucer had given him from his backpack, stuffing it into his pocket before swinging down from his branch to another, and another, until he ended up back on the ground.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he headed off down the trail to go change his bandages in yet another public bathroom.  

He rounded a corner, looking up just in time to see someone running at him.  Abel yelped, jumping to the side as the person changed course, tripping over his own feet and tumbling backwards.  Luckily, this time at least he’d managed to keep his hands from landing in the gravel and dirt.  The other person started speaking, and Abel went pale.  

It was the man who’d led him and another man into the forest to follow a blood trail the night of the masquerade, the one he’d abandoned by running away after a burning branch had nearly fallen and taken him out.  “It’s you,” he blurted out, pushing himself back to his feet.  Then, realizing how rude that’d been, “Sorry, it’s just... y- yeah, it’s been pretty empty here.  I don’t even know if I’ve heard any birds recently, to be honest.”

[abel-notable-blog]

amityxbell:

Smoothing their t-shirt down, suddenly self-conscious, they surreptitiously looked over themself. They were binding today, using their less effective one. It was more comfortable, but they didn’t think it worked as well. They felt lucky that the dark clothes they normally wore tended to hide the worst of it, but they still felt uncomfortable. Amity wondered vaguely if the other person noticed, even though they knew it was illogical.

His smile and his comment, an inexplicit expression that it really was okay, that he wasn’t offended, relaxed Amity a modicum. Their shoulders, before tense, slackened ever so slightly, and they felt the muscles ache for having been taut. “Yeah, true,” they agreed, amused. Amity had little need for that, but they supposed it would probably come in handy at some point.

Glad that he wasn’t offended, they shook his hand, smiled a little. Abel, they hadn’t heard that name before but they liked it. “Nice to meet you too, Abel.” Then, unable to stop themself speaking further, they continued, “Hey, your name’s kind of like Edgar Allen Poe’s. Same syllables, and stuff. And - and Poe is the same.” Shit, stop rambling, Amity, they told themself.

Abel raised an eyebrow as the other person smoothed their hands over their shirt, confused.  The t-shirt looked fine on them, didn’t it?  And with how big their jacket was - he tugged at the sleeves of his own too-small coat - it wasn’t like that many people could even tell that their t-shirt was out of place.  Then again, maybe it had gotten uncomfortable, he couldn’t tell.  So he relaxed, letting his hands rest at his sides just as Amity themself relaxed.  

He let out a laugh when Amity pointed out the similarity between his name and Edgar Allen Poe’s, nodding.  “Believe it or not, that’s kind of where Poe comes from.  Well, where my name comes from,” he told her, grinning.  “The nurse who named me was a bit of a literature nerd, and wanted to have my name related a little to Poe’s - but everyone else told her that it was a little much for me to be named Edgar Allen Poe.  So she came up with Abel Gaither-Poe, and it, ah, stuck.”

He glanced over at Amity, frowning a little bit.  “Uhm, what were you going to ask Micah about, if you don’t mind me asking?”  Sure, it may not have been the most polite thing to ask, but his curiosity was winning him over - he needed to know.

[americaleger]

[abel-notable-blog]

proper meetings || abel & willow

[abel-notable-blog]

willownotweeping:

Chaucer had mentioned a pale blonde boy who had been into the shop seeking a balm for cuts and abrasions on his hands. She knew before he ever got to tell her the young man’s name. Willow had been concerned for Abel since the night of the fire, hoping he’d made it out of danger okay. After she’d initially caught him with the vines (in a feat of magic Willow had never even thought of before, much less attempted), Abel had seemed justifiably shaken and unsurprisingly hurt. Willow had every intention of personally seeing to his recovery, but he just sort of slipped from her in the chaos, and she’d had no way of knowing where he went.

Now that the fires had finally died down and the smoke was finally clearing from the Thistle Way, Willow had an idea. She’d been going out to try and repair what damage she could to the woods since that night, and she’d even seen hydromancers and other terraformers out doing the same. So that afternoon, she went out with a bit extra in her supply bag, hoping that she could find him again by taking a route that cut close to the area where she’d originally found him.

She’s been so focused on healing the ground that she hadn’t been looking to the sky when she heard a voice call her name from above. “Oh,” she answered reflexively, a note of surprise in her voice as she looked up at that familiar young man in the tree. “Hello, Abel.” a faded smile stretched her lips as she waved up at him. “I’d been hoping to find you out here. Could you please…come down here?”

Abel mirrored Willow’s smile, albeit with a bit more energy.  Truth be told, he’d been hoping to see her again at some point - he had so many questions for her about how she’d saved him from the fire.  One moment he’d been dangling from a tree branch, grip slipping as he hung over the flames, the next... the next, he’d been caught by vines - real, actual vines - that had slowed his fall so he landed safely.  And, shaken as he had been, having just nearly died, he’d just wandered off into the forest after she’d introduced herself, without asking her how exactly she’d helped him.  

After all, vines didn’t normally move like that.

He nodded at her request, quickly swinging down the last couple branches to the ground, landing with a quiet grunt before he stood and grinned at her.  “What’re you doing, looking for me?  And, ah, how are you doing?  Since, y’know, since...” he trailed off with a vague wave of his hands, shrugging.  He still couldn’t talk about what all had happened that night, not all of it.  But surely Willow had had a reason to come looking for him, of all people.

[abel-notable-blog]

lost and found || abel & ben

Sirens woke Abel from a restless sleep, curled under the blanket Micah had draped over him the night before.  Still groggy, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a groan and sat up, stretching to try and completely wake up.  Then he realized - the sirens had stopped just outside the shop.  Fear sank ice-cold claws into his veins, galvanizing him into action as he flew around the small room he’d been living in, snatching up clothes and toiletries, even the towel Micah had given him, and throwing them all into his backpack.  Throwing his coat on, and slinging the bag onto his back, he ran for the window, glad that it faced the side of the building rather than the front.

Abel clambered out of the second story window, dangling from his fingertips for a long moment before gritting his teeth and letting go.  He rolled to the side as soon as he hit the ground, stifling the low groan that threatened to startle out of him on impact.  After all, he wasn’t in Canada legally - he didn’t even have any identification.  For all he knew, someone had found that out, and sent the cops to Micah’s shop to arrest him, send him back to the States, something.  And he wasn’t about that life.

So he ran.

He ducked into the residential area next door, running flat out until the sound of the sirens had faded into the distance, into silence.  Only then did he pause for breath, still poised for flight, should a silent cop sneak up on him.  

It was only when a young couple passed by, chattering to each other, that Abel learned the true reason for the police presence at MediumShipley’s.  

“It’s such a shame, Micah’s disappeared,” the woman commented, brows drawn together in a frown.  “Especially with what happened at the masquerade, and Amos’ death?  What if he’s the next body they find?”

Abel didn’t care to listen to the man’s reply, too caught up in the first comment to care.  Micah was gone.  The man who had sheltered him, cared for him, promised to help him get rid of the spirit riding on his shoulders... Micah was just.  Gone.  Gone.

Like so many others that’d come before, Micah had just up and left, pushing Abel to the wayside and dropping him in the dust.  

And once again, he was homeless.

He couldn’t go back to the shop to sleep, not with the cops likely crawling all over it looking for clues for who knows how long, and he wasn’t close enough to anyone else in town to sleep there.  So it was back to the still burnt-out forest, and sleeping in the trees.  At least his hands had healed.  

For now, though, Abel wandered the town, fixated on the fact that one more person had left him without a word, leaving him to fend for himself once again.

[abel-notable-blog]

amityxbell:

They’d had half a mind to complain to him - well why not? - but they knew it wouldn’t do anything, so they instead just sighed, all their energy gone. They had been working up to this for so long, ever since the Masquerade. Now they felt like they had been popped, the air had been let out of them.

“I need to ask him something,” they told him, but without commitment now. “I just - I had an idea. It doesn’t matter.” Amity shook their head as though trying to dismiss the thoughts from their skull, as though hoping they would dissipate. They began to fiddle with the tassels on their scarf, rubbing their fingertips over them. 

At his comment, and his apparent lack of offence taken, they hazarded a very small smile. “I suppose, I am quite small.” They often wished they were taller, it was one of those things that people looked for when trying to figure out the gender of the person they spoke to. They blamed it for them getting misgendered a lot of the time. 

Now interested in his appearance because of his height, they looked at him inquisitively. Small all over, but very pretty. Not that the two were mutually exclusive. Amity did not possess the latter in their opinion, but he was pretty. “Uh, I’m Amity. Sorry for being, y’know, rude.”

Abel frowned as the other person sighed, seemingly deflated at the idea that Micah was gone.  And he wondered, wondered about the idea that’d apparently been so amazing that they just had to ask the necromancer for help.  Or that couldn’t wait for the older man to return from his outing.  But, asking and prying into that - especially when it came to matters of the dead, as Abel had found out - wasn’t exactly polite, so he refrained, sticking to a slow nod.  

He did smile, however, when they did, shrugging.  “Hey, at least we can fit into smaller spaces than everyone else.”  Something that was an advantage when one liked the outdoors and exploring as much as Abel did - it made exploring small crevices in forests and ravines that much easier when he could fit his body into the tiny spaces.  He couldn’t imagine someone bigger than him trying to do the same thing.

The smile grew on his face as the other person looked him over and introduced themself.  Amity, he thought, committing the name to memory as he stuck out his hand for them to shake.  “Eh, you’re not rude.  At least, I didn’t think you were rude.  But it’s nice to meet you, Amity - I’m Abel.  Abel Gaither-Poe.”

[abel-notable-blog]

Hematite

hematite: how squeamish my muse is

Abel is not very squeamish at all, unless it comes to blood.  He’s fine seeing animal blood or dried blood, but when it comes to actual, actively bleeding human blood, he gets sick immediately.

[abel-notable-blog]

send me a crystal and i'll tell...

abalone: what kind of situations compromise my muse emotionally

aegerine: my muse's opinion of the supernatural

agate: how my muse calms down

blue lace agate: my muse's favorite form of communication (verbal, letters, texting, etc.)

fire agate: if my muse is brave or cowardly

moss agate: if my muse has a high or low opinion of themself

amazonite: what kind of situations call for my muse to be dishonest

amethyst: what my muse would most like to be able to shape-shift into

ammolite: how lucky or unlucky my use is

angel aura quartz: my muse's opinion of LGBT+ issues

apache tears: a sadness headcanon

apatite: a headcanon about my muse's intuition

apophyllite: my muse's religious/spiritual beliefs

aquamarine: where my muse feels most calm/relaxed

biotite: the biggest problems my muse is currently dealing with

bloodstone: how my muse sees themself as part of the world at large

calcite: my muse's social tendencies (introverted vs extroverted, parties vs one-on-one conversations, etc.)

carnelian: an art-related headcanon

celestite: how my muse deals with anxiety

chalcedony: the saddest my muse has ever been

chalcopyrite: how my muse deals with ending relationships

charoite: who my muse looks up to

chrysocolla: a money-making headcanon

copper: how I think my muse will end up when they're older

coral: how my muse views the natural world

dolomite: a sleep headcanon

emerald: how my muse tells someone they love them without words

fluorite: what my muse's room looks like

fossil: what my muse's dream job is

galena: what it's like to be in a relationship with my muse

garnet: what my muse's perfect partner would be

gold: my muse's financial situation

hematite: how squeamish my muse is

hiddenite: how much of an "inner child" my muse has

iolite: my muse's drinking habits

jade: if my muse would ever cheat on a partner

jasper: what my muse would be like as a parent

kyanite: an anger headcanon

lapis lazuli: where 'home' is to my muse

lodestone: what kind of people gravitate towards my muse

malachite: what my muse as a child thought they would be when they grew up

mica: what my muse views as their worst personality trait

moonstone: my muse's opinions on outer space

mother of pearl: if my muse tends to lift people up or bring them down

nebula stone: how good my muse's memory is

obsidian: which of the seven deadly sins my muse would be

opal: how creative my muse is

pearl: a mental health headcanon

petalite: what my muse would do if they found a wallet on the street

pyrite: a physical health headcanon

quartz: how my muse thinks other people see them

rhodonite: if my muse prefers elegance or convenience

rubellite: if my muse has any triggers that inspire painful memories

ruby: a happiness headcanon

sapphire: if everyone my muse knew was hanging off a cliff and they could only choose three to save, the rest certainly dying, who they would choose

serpentine: how my muse makes their money

silver: if my muse prefers masculinity or femininity

tsavorite: if my muse believes in destiny or fate

ulexite: how empathetic/sympathetic/compassionate my muse is

unakite: what my muse's ideal pet would be

verdite: my muse's ethnicity/family history

zebra stone: what gets my muse excited

zoisite: does my muse believe everything's going to work out for them in the end or not?

[rpmememaker]

Send me a character name + a room, and I'll tell you my headcanons:

Kitchen:

What is the character’s favorite food?

Are they good at cooking? How good/bad?

Do they leave the dishes out?

What kind of food is in their refrigerator?

Do they cook, eat out or get take-away/delivered food more?

Living Room:

How does the character spend weekends?

What kind of movies does the character watch?

What do they do with friends?

What’s their favorite pastime?

What’s their favorite TV show/film?

Bathroom:

How does the character prepare in the morning?

Do they sing in the shower?

What kind of hair product/make-up do they use?

How clean is this character?

Does the character have thousands of shampoo/shower gel bottles by the shower, or do they use only the bare essentials?

Bedroom:

How does this character sleep? (Position, sleeping habits, bedtime routines)

What are their pajamas like?

What do they dream about usually?

How neat/tidy is this character?

How affectionate is this character?

Attic:

What is the character afraid of?

How do they deal with bad memories?

What is this character’s role in a horror movie?

How do they hide their secrets?

Which of the Seven Deadly Sins does the character relate to most?

[abel-notable-blog]

benjamin-mackenzie

Ben eyed the young man, he looked at him as he looked at everyone: with careful examination. The beauty – or rather, the folly – of Birchwood seemed to be an inability for people to keep their mouths shut. They were all too interested in revealing themselves as witches. Were they reckless or stupid? He couldn’t decide. 

It was an interesting ploy though, to see who would bite at his mention of witches as fact. It outed them as something different. Something inhuman, or close to it. There were no hunters here who weren’t under his sway, and if there were they would be forced to defer to him by laws of the hunt. This boy was no hunter. Was he a witch?

“I cannae say fer sure, again, it’s only stories. Legends. Unless ye believe in that sort of thing, but then, I’ve Birchwood is home t’a superstitious breed.”

It took Abel a moment to understand what the man was actually saying - he hadn’t had much experience with accents up until now - but once he did, he wrinkled his nose.  He knew people believed in the stories of witches in the history books, but to Abel, well, it was all the same stuff as in Harry Potter and the like.  Legends, like the man had said.  “’Course I don’t believe in all that,” he said, frowning.  “But people still died - there has to be some sort of explanation, you know?”

[thelightthatneverdies-deactivat]

[abel-notable-blog]

amityxbell:

The way he spoke, he didn’t seem like a threat, but Amity was utterly disheartened at the thought of Micah not being in, and they felt all their resolve drain away within seconds. Visibly deflated, they sighed, rubbed the back of their neck. “Fucksake,” they mumbled, shaking their head slightly. 

“Are you sure you don’t know when he’s going to be back?” Amity asked, looking around restlessly, as though he was hiding behind a shelf. They were so torn about their idea, half convinced it was the cleverest thought in the world, half convinced that there had to be something wrong. They weren’t the kind of person who came up with good ideas.

Then they noticed that the boy in front of them was barely an inch taller than them. “Just, it’s fierce important that-” they tried to continue, now incredibly distracted. “Bloody hell, you’re fecking tiny.” Shit, that was rude. Now they felt guilty. Wretchedly, they tried to amend, “Sorry, I didn’t - sorry.”

Abel blinked, placing the cracker he had in his hand back in the box as the other person deflated.  He wasn’t expecting to see anyone until Micah came back - as far as he knew, the older man didn’t have any appointments at the moment - but then again, the dead couldn’t always wait.  Especially these days, after the- he shook himself.  It wouldn’t do to think about that again.  Not with how well he’d finally been sleeping.

“Yeah, he didn’t- I mean, I didn’t ask when he’d be back,” he replied, frowning slightly.  To tell the truth, he’d been half asleep when Micah had left, only conscious enough to nod a little and get out a mumbled “okay”.  So maybe he had said, but Abel didn’t catch it.  Either way, the person in front of him looked restless and maybe a little bit annoyed with the idea of Micah being gone.

“It’s important that what?” he asked, curious now.  Before he could continue with that line of thought, however, the other person commented on his height.  Abel flushed, dropping the box of crackers to his side and glancing away from them.  “Nah, it’s... it’s fine, I know I’m pretty small.”  Small was an understatement.  Abel had never really hit his growth spurt, leaving him at a solid 5′3″, but on top of that, living on the streets had left him slightly underweight, though he didn’t know the exact number.  “You’re small yourself,” he commented, raising an eyebrow as he really looked the person over.

[abel-notable-blog]

ABEL GAITHER-POE ❧ PROMPT #1 ❧ DOSSIER

GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME:  Abel Gaither-Poe

NICKNAME(S):  Abe

AGE:  20 years old

DATE OF BIRTH:  May 25, 1995

OCCUPATION:  Unemployed, as of now

MAGICK AND/OR RELIGION:  Untriggered Psyche // Agnostic

SEXUALITY:  Demiromantic pansexual

APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM:  Tom Webb

HEIGHT:  5′3″

WEIGHT:  103lbs

HAIR COLOR:  Brown

EYE COLOR:  Blue

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES:  Impressive eyebrows, lopsided grin, small scar on his shin from a bad fall as a kid

BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN:  Bellingham, WA, USA

CURRENT RESIDENCE:  Birchwood, AB, CA

EDUCATION LEVEL:  High school graduate

FATHER:  Unknown

MOTHER:  Unknown

SIBLINGS:  Unknown

OTHER FAMILY:  Unknown

LOVE AND LOSS

HAVE THEY EVER BEEN IN LOVE?  Yes, once.  And in Abel’s words, “Never again.”

WHAT DOES LOVE MEAN TO THEM?  Abel doesn’t really believe in the idea of love anymore, not since Peter disappeared without a word.  He doesn’t really want to open up and trust someone on that level anymore, because he’s worried he’ll get hurt again.

WHO ARE THEIR CLOSEST FRIENDS?  Abel doesn’t exactly have close friends so much as acquaintances that he kind of pretends he’s close to.

WHAT/WHO IN THEIR LIFE WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE TO LIVE WITHOUT?  His backpack - it has everything he’s ever needed as he’s travelled in it.

WHAT DOES “DEATH” MEAN TO THEM?  Abel’s pretty nonchalant about death, to be honest.  As an orphan who bounced from house to house as a kid, death to Abel was just kind of this inevitability.  He doesn’t feel strongly about it one way or the other.

HAS ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM DIED?  Not that Abel knows of, no.  (In reality, both his parents were killed by hunters shortly after abandoning him, but Abel hasn’t found this out yet)

PERSONALITY

JUNG PERSONALITY:  ESFP

ENNEAGRAM PERSONALITY:  Type 7: The Entertainer, The Enthusiast, The Helper // Energetic, engaged, spontaneous

MORAL ALIGNMENT:  Chaotic Good, leaning towards Lawful Good

MAIN VIRTUE/MAIN SIN:  Kindness // Pride

WITCHES ONLY

WHAT DOES MAGICK MEAN TO THEM?  Magick to Abel was just the stuff of fairytales and bedtime stories.  He doesn’t really think much of it in general at the moment, since to him it can’t be real.  Witches were wiped out, in his mind.

HOW OLD WERE THEY WHEN THEIR MAGICK MANIFESTED? (If applicable)  Not applicable.

HOW DOES THEIR FAMILY VIEW MAGICK?  Abel never knew his family, so he never knew this, but he actually came from a small family of psychics.  Magic to them was just as natural as breathing, but it did lead to them getting killed by hunters shortly after dropping baby Abel on the steps of a hospital in Bellingham.

ARE THEY SUITED TO THEIR VEIN AND/OR THEIR FAMILY’S VEIN?  Not really?  Abel doesn’t know he has magick yet, so...

IS THERE ANY VEIN THEY WOULD BE MORE SUITED TO?  Since he spends so much time in nature (even going so far as to sleep in the trees), he seems like he’d be more suited to being a terraformer rather than a psychic, but we’ll see.

thanks to kat for the graphic!

[abel-notable-blog]

amityxbell:

Amity hadn’t been able to get this thought out of their head, it had stuck there all day. Micah Shipley was a necromancer, he could speak to the dead. He could speak to the recent dead, too, so far as he knew. Just ask them who killed them, maybe then the town would get some peace, they could tear the people who did this apart.They reassured themself that it was okay to think like that, they deserved it. 

They let themself into the necromancer’s shop, pulling their headphones down around their neck. They liked Micah, he deserved their full attention, especially right now. 

But he wasn’t there. Instead there was some boy with impressive eyebrows they didn’t recognise. He didn’t look much older than Amity, and they regarded him suspiciously. “Where’s Micah?” they asked, “I need to speak to him. It’s important.”

Abel hummed to himself, sliding into the same back room Micah had taken him to the first night he’d run here, seeking solace.  This time, however, he was seeking food, rather than help.  The man was out - Abel didn’t bother asking him where he was headed - leaving him alone in the shop for a while.  He snatched up the box of old saltine crackers, too nervous to even attempt turning the stove on without Micah there.  Especially since his hands were still healing from the last brush he’d had with fire.

He opened the box, stuffing a cracker into his mouth as he headed back out to go back and maybe nap a while longer in what’d quickly become his room.  At least until Micah came back and Abel had some actual company around.

Someone spoke then, freezing the boy in his tracks.  He glanced over, meeting the other person’s suspicious gaze with a startled one of his own, hand frozen halfway to his mouth.  Abel swallowed heavily and licked his lips, mouth dry from the cracker.  “Uhm.  Micah’s out, and I don’t- I don’t know when he’ll be back, to be honest.  What did you need to speak to him about?”

[honeythistle]

[brainisafunnyplace]